Everybody's Got at Least One
by livengoo
Summary: PostSimon Said episode tag. Sam had visions of Anson's victims. All of them.


Everybody's Got At Least One

by livengoo

livengoo at Yep, for Simon Said.

Simon Said post-ep fic. No explicit violence, no sex, no words you can't learn from cable and maybe from prime time, too.

Needless to say, Sam and Dean belong to me. No, no, must . . . tell . . .truth. They belong to McG. But I took good care of 'em while I played with them.

* * *

Sam Winchester thought his brain might shove his eyeballs out of his head. Then it'd crawl out of the holes and try to get away. Anything to escape from the blazing migraine agony that was him.

He still saw the girl, standing there shivering in her slip, warm skin and thin cloth fluttering in the wind that roared up from the dam. But he saw more than that.

Sam saw pine needles and darkness and the dam again, but this time from a distance. It didn't make any sense, dark and darker and a faint pale smudge that slowly resolved into Dean's face, Dean's hands . . .and the dark shape of the H&K rifle. He had his eye to the sight. Then he didn't. The intent expression slipped from his face and left blank confusion as he shifted back, dropped the butt to rest on the ground . . .

Sam's eyes flew open and the scream caught in his throat. He couldn't tell where physical pain ended and emotional pain began but he knew, oh knew like he'd known Jessica was still alive on that ceiling in the flames, knew he had to get to his feet, get to his brother.

There was an argument over his head but it didn't really matter. The last vision . . . it had happened only seconds before she set herself on fire. Oh god oh god how much time did he have?

He squinted up, saw the girl, Tracy, still there, saw Andy standing there, stunned, face to face with Anson. Then not . . . his head hurt so much and the sodium lights made his eyes sting. The pavement under his hands felt gritty and little sharp bits dug into his hands. It smelled oily and harsh, like old rubber over the smell of trees on a cool evening.

Why was he thinking of this? Oh god, oh god, he was smelling the trees and the earth and the breeze and Dean was judging the breeze, correcting for it . . .

And Anson was moving, turning, saying something that made no sense. His words sounded like a children's game. "I see you . . ."

Sam forced himself up to his feet as he heard the words and knew without a shadow of a doubt that the world was holding its breath.

He started to run, stumbling. Not fast enough. Couldn't possibly be fast enough. Looking down on the dam and Dean was up there, on the hillside.

Sam scanned as he stumbled, trying to make himself run, trying to find the power in his muscles, and it was so far away.

There, he had to be in that range of trees, looking down.

But he wasn't looking down, not anymore. Sam could almost feel the circle of cold metal under his chin and he gagged, sobbed.

Anson was silent. The girl was sobbing. Dean was . . .

When the shot echoed off the concrete dam he thought his heart had stopped.

When it echoed in his ears he tasted hot bile at the back of his throat.

When it echoed and she sobbed, he stopped.

Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could feel his heart in his throat and his blood gone to ice and the world was empty. And the shot was too close.

And the shot was a short, sharp bark, not the defined crack of a rifle. The shot was not a rifle shot.

Sam's eyes flew open and the pain in his head didn't matter. The watery feeling in his legs didn't matter.

He ran. Now, when it was all over he could run and it pissed him off but he just couldn't care. He thrashed through the greenery and boughs whipped back to hit him in the face. He was calling, yelling, "Dean! DEAN!" even as he heard Andy yelling too, from down by the dam, finding his own. Didn't matter. Not then. It'd matter soon that Tracy lived but right now Sam was forcing his way through the greenery, and then he heard a cough and nearly tripped over the body sitting on the ground.

Sitting. Not lying. Not sprawled. Not cooling. Sitting there, hands over knees, head hanging, and the smell of vomit was sharp and foul but it didn't matter at all.

Sam dropped to kneel in the soft leaf mould and grabbed Dean's shoulders, shaking him. Pushing him so his head rocked back, then running fingers up his neck. Under his throat and around to the back of his head and up, through his hair, where the exit wound would have gaped.

Dean's hair was damp with the mist and the water dripping from the trees. It was cool, not warm. Not sticky. His hair was damp. Scalp damp. But not broken. He was talking, hands batting at Sam's.

"Dude, get OFF! What the fuck?"

"Oh god," Sam couldn't help himself. He yanked Dean's head forward and had to look, see for himself that the dark hair was clean. Pushed Dean's head back until he could see under his chin too. And Dean let him, though he glared ferociously down his nose and growled, "Are you DONE groping me yet?"

"You're fine. You're fine. Aren't you?"

"Other than being mauled by my brother? I'm starting to see why you don't get any dates, man. You're supposed to buy me dinner first."

"Dinner?" Sam blinked, shaking his head at the lunacy of it, the relief. He blinked away tears. "What happened?"

"Uh . . " Dean met his eyes briefly, then looked away. "I tripped."

"Tripped?" Sam couldn't stop the incredulous rise in his voice. "TRIPPED?"

"Yeah. Fell on my ass. Cracked my head.

"But I saw -" Sam stopped. Swallowed hard. Dean was watching him with a wary, trapped look from under his lashes. Sam blinked, let his thumb trace his brother's jaw and then dropped his hand. "Uhh. Hit your head?"

Dean was eyeing him. Sitting, they were shrouded in the green maze of trees and shrubs. The elder brother stood slowly, as if his knees shook, and looked down the hillside. Then down at Sam. "How'd you know I was up here?"

Sam looked around himself and remembered Dean promising he'd stay back, away from Andy, away from Anson. The rank stink of vomit made his own stomach lurch. Or maybe it would have anyway, as he thought about his brother up here, hidden. But not from Anson.

He didn't look up at Dean. "I saw you."

"Reflection off the lens?" Dean's voice was impersonal, distant.

"Vision."

There was no answer to that. The silence hung between them a long time, it seemed. Then Dean cleared his throat. "Oh."

Sam whispered, "yeah."

Then a warm hand fell on his shoulder. And squeezed.

"Your head ache?" He still sounded neutral, voice low, but Sam felt the warmth and pressure on his shoulder. Swallowed hard.

"Yeah. Shoulda bought stock in Excedrin."

There was a dry snort of laughter. "Tell me about it." Then Dean was picking up his rifle and offering a hand. Sam held on tight, maybe tighter than he needed to as his brother pulled him to his feet. He twitched, almost reached out to wrap his arms around Dean, then leaned back. Gestured at the rifle. "I figure the cops will be here soon enough."

"Oh yeah," Dean had started through the green tangle, holding branches back here and there so they didn't slap Sam. He pitched his voice high and squeaky, "Why no, officer, I'm just happy to see you!"

Sam chuckled, winced as it sent a little jolt of pain through his head. "Asshole."

"Yeah, well, everybody's got at least one."

"And I've got two." Sam grinned as Dean raised a hand and flipped him off. Two. Intact and functional. Yeah, he could live with that.


End file.
